


It would be comical if it was not mutual

by quietkerfluffle (giraffeminion)



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alcohol references, Drunk Greg Lestrade, John Ships It, M/M, Mystrade Monday, mystrade
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-14
Updated: 2020-09-14
Packaged: 2021-03-06 22:47:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,107
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26456674
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/giraffeminion/pseuds/quietkerfluffle
Summary: Mycroft tries to orchestrate time alone with Detective Inspector Gregory Lestrade, but drunk Greg spills some classified information. Armed with new intelligence, what will Mycroft do next?Prompt from Mystrade Monday for, “I can take care of myself just fine.”
Relationships: Mycroft Holmes/Greg Lestrade, Mycroft Holmes/Lestrade
Comments: 13
Kudos: 134





	It would be comical if it was not mutual

Mycroft Holmes rarely makes social calls. _Never_ , Anthea’s voice corrects him in his head, and Mycroft would (if pressed) cede subconscious-Anthea’s point. Mycroft Holmes gains information and creates alliances under the guise of social calls.

Tonight is a particular exception.

Tonight, he hopes to make a social visit under the guise of a work one. Detective Inspector Gregory Lestrade and Dr. John Watson had arrived at the pub several hours ago, and Mycroft knows that Dr. Watson hopes to return to his flat at a reasonable hour for the next day’s early morning shift. If he times it right, Mycroft can arrive just when Dr. Watson is itching to leave but the detective inspector is not, therefore ensuring a block of time in which he has the uninterrupted attention of said detective inspector.

The door to the pub swings open when he is still several storefronts away, but he can hear the voice of the man who had only just avoided crashing into it as he lurched outside.

“I can take care of myself jus' fine!” the man slurs cheerily.

_Oh dear._

“Your inability to walk straight says otherwise,” returns the man who had followed Lestrade out the door, because of course it was Lestrade, Lestrade and Dr. Watson, and Mycroft should have known better than to think the universe would grant him this indulgence.

“That’s fine cuz nothing about me is straight!” Mycroft rolls his eyes, but before he can melt back into the shadows for a strategic exit, he hears, “Don’t matter, though. Can’t pull the one bloke that matters.”

He pauses.

“...tall, dry sense of humor, incredible loyalty--yes, that’s a turn-on John, don’t argue with me--” Lestrade is obligingly listing the man’s qualities and Mycroft is not above gathering information on a potential threat. _Threat to..?_ subconscious-Anthea asks him, but he waves her off. Potential weak points of anyone in Sherlock’s circle warrant a background check.

“Don’t forget the suits,” Dr. Watson supplies helpfully.

Lestrade groans, and Mycroft feels his core drop in response. “Don’t even get me started on the suits...Fuck me up if Mycroft Holmes isn’t bloody drop-dead gorgeous in a suit. That, and his eyes…”

_Pardon???_

Dr. Watson hums good-naturedly, but Mycroft’s mind races, at a racing-car-careening-around-the-track pace except apparently the car has no driver in this metaphor because Mycroft is Not In Control and that may account for why he’s still processing when the pair is only a few paces from him. Lestrade is still talking.

“I just haven’t had the courage to actually say anything, ya know? What am I supposed to say, ‘Hullo Mycroft, I dunno if you have any time to spare when you’re not holding down the entire British Government but if you do I’d love to grab dinner because I’ve been daft about you for ages?’ ‘Scuse me,” Lestrade apologizes to Mycroft’s pocket square, having just collided with it, and Mycroft reflexively reaches out to stabilize him.

Lestrade traces one unsteady finger along the inside of Mycroft’s breast pocket, and Mycroft can’t breathe. He locks eyes with Dr. Watson over Lestrade’s head, and the good doctor seems frozen in a half-state of shock and mortification. It would be comical if it was not mutual.

“Greg…” Dr. Watson tries, mouthing ‘I’m so sorry’ to Mycroft without breaking his wide-eye contact.

Lestrade ignores him. “Look, this bloke has a fancy suit just like my Holmes. My Holmes is inarguably more attractive than yours, no offense John, but--” whatever else Lestrade was going to say trails off when he finally lifts his gaze to Mycroft’s face.

Mycroft watches shock, denial, horror, embarrassment run through his eyes before he closes them, scrunching his face like it could clear the last few minutes of his existence. When he opens them again, his expression is resigned. Mycroft lets go of his elbow.

“This isn’t how I would’ve liked you to find out,” he whispers, this time making his address to Mycroft’s shoes. He pulls his head up like it takes effort and meets his gaze squarely. “I don’t regret you knowing, though. Might not have ever had the courage to say it.”

Mycroft smells the beer on Lestrade’s breath, inhales and steps back, watching Lestrade’s hand trail off his chest as he widens the distance.

“I had hoped to consult…” he addresses Dr. Watson, impressed by how smooth his voice sounds, “...on a case, but it is, of course, non urgent and I--” he didn’t know how to finish this sentence, could feel Dr. Watson straining not to look down at his watch.

“--I hope you have a good rest of your night,” he finishes, spinning on his heel before he can make an even bigger fool of himself. He hopes it doesn’t look like he’s fleeing. He certainly is.

\---

Greg groans at the sunlight stabbing his headache and smears his face into his bedsheets. _Christ._ His phone appears to be dead, but the clock on his bedside table says it was a little later than is respectable on a Saturday ~~morning~~ afternoon. Why had he drank so much? He probably has to apologize to John for th-- _CHRIST._

Mycroft. Bloody hell.

A text message is probably out of the question. Terribly informal and presumptuous. An email would be worse, though, and a call would be excruciating. Might need to be a call, Greg thinks gloomily, but for one sweet second considers finding the closest CCTV camera and holding up a series of signs like that awful scene in that blasted Christmas movie _Love, Actually_ that someone insists on playing in the break room every year.

His signs would say:

  1. Hi Mycroft :)
  2. Sorry to have caught you unawares :(
  3. I was very drunk, and I apologize for making you uncomfortable.
  4. Please pretend like it never happened.



He mentally slips a fifth card in the pile that reads, “...unless?” but that's just setting himself up for more embarrassment.

He swings painfully upright, shoves his phone charger in the wall and shuffles to the door for the morning paper. On top of the folded daily is a thick, cream colored envelope. He picks it up. There is no address or postage, only his name handwritten in elegant script. He tears it open, not sure why he's holding his breath.

The envelope slips quietly through his fingers as he skims through its contents. Suddenly he's impatient for his phone to charge.

The last line reads:

> “...if you are still interested in deepening our acquaintance, I have taken the liberty of reserving a table at Gio’s. Please call to confirm so that a car can be arranged to pick you up.
> 
> Yours,  
> Mycroft Holmes”

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks again for the lovely Mystrade Monday prompt! At first all I could think of was angst angst angst but then came a vision of a drunk and swaying Gregory Lestrade and all was well. I, like Greg, also hate the "classic" British Christmas movie _Love, Actually_. For those blessedly unacquainted, but wishing to understand Greg's reference, I have attached a gif.  
> 


End file.
